


all-consuming

by mandadoration



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Against the wall sex, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Choking, Cumshot, Dom/sub, F/M, Face-Fucking, Fingering, Fluff, Reader is a sex worker, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Violence, albeit very awkward, in the beginning at least, paid sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandadoration/pseuds/mandadoration
Summary: What brutal efficiency Paz Vizla carries himself with, and what brutal efficiency he shows when he’s fucking you against the wall.
Relationships: Paz Vizla/Original Female Character(s), Paz Vizla/Reader, Paz Vizla/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 222





	all-consuming

Paz Vizla is nothing if not all-consuming. From his hulking stature that fills up the door frame to how the room quiets when he walks in, high tension trailing behind him, he makes himself present and known. He doesn’t need to verbally command a room when all it takes is a sweeping gesture, a too-tight turn of his head and a fist at his side before spines straighten and chins raise. The line between fear and respect blurs to the point it might as well be non-existent. 

Even you aren’t quite sure where you are. He swallows you up in his shadow, and you just _know_ that he revels in that fact. You can’t see his face-- and you highly you ever will-- but you get a feeling it’s something that adds to the puff of his chest. You know because he seems intent on letting you know whenever he calls in. 

And the people in the room next to yours. 

And the people down the hallway.

Maybe the entire star system.

He certainly seemed intent on that the first time he met you. 

As far as first impressions went, Paz’s could be much better. He’s the one that gives you the impression that maybe Mandalorians aren’t taught manners, like to knock before entering a closed room, because he barged into your reserved room just as you took off your underwear for a leering client, pulling him off of you and off the bed by the scruff of his neck. The client makes a choked-off noise that has you pulling a face, scrabbling at the silken sheets with dirty fingernails as he tries to gain some traction. He has no chance compared to the large bounty hunter. If you had to guess, he was twice the client’s size, maybe more if you accounted for the armor. No contest.

You just watch with mild interest as the large Mandalorian knocks him out and slaps cuffs around his bounty’s thin wrists, barely even looking at you during the whole thing. As if you weren’t even there. The brutal efficiency in which the Mandalorian had carried out his actions had intrigued you. You had witnessed a fair share of violence in your life- just comes with not having the security of funds or status- but the Mandalorian in your room had done it so casually that you had started to really wonder if there were some malicious intentions, some deep-seated anger that manifested because the last you heard, knocking someone’s lights out wasn’t a prerequisite to bringing a bounty in. 

Once the bounty was hauled over his shoulder, he had given you a curt nod, the only acknowledgement he had given you thus far, and stepped towards the door, intent to leave. That is, before you pouted your lips and called for him, asking for the name of your unconventional savior. You really hadn’t looked forward to having to service your client after all. Far too old and hungry like a starving strill for your tastes, lips perpetually pulled back in a sneer. The least you could do was offer what you were best at. 

For a moment you think that he’ll ignore you and keep walking out the door, but he stops. Gives no name, granted, but least now you have his attention. 

You hum, and trail a lazy finger up the outside of your leg. “You know, he’s already paid for the full hour,” you purr, making a dainty motion at the unconscious man, leaning forward and pushing your elbows together. You can’t tell where his eyes are looking, but from how the hand at his side clenches into fist, you have a small inkling of where his gaze lands. “Be a shame if it went to waste. I’d much rather have fun with you,” and your panties are already off anyways, so you lean back and relax against the cushions, lifting your legs into the air and batting your eyelashes at him. To top it all off, you bring your hands around to spread yourself open for him, and give him a winning smile like a pin-up girl worthy enough to be painted onto the side of the best starship in the galaxy. 

It’s funny that all it takes for you to derail a Mandalorian and convince him to spend the prepaid hour with you was to spread your legs and look pretty for him. He shoves the man unceremoniously into the wardrobe and absolutely pounced on you. It was too bad you couldn’t tell the other girls that you had snagged a _Mandalorian_ of all people. A Mandalorian that had reduced you to a shaking mess within the first half hour. A Mandalorian that managed to go two rounds and a half before your room’s sound system had chimed to let you know the hour was up. 

As you lay in the bed, panting still and rubbing the fingerprint-shaped bruises on your shoulders long after he had gone, you thought that that would be the last you ever saw of basically the best lay of your life; but a few months later, he asks for you by name, much to your surprise, seeing as you never gave it before he left. You had started to think that maybe he wouldn’t even spare you a second thought while he was out there doing whatever it is Mandalorians do. But he walks in, without knocking, again, and grumbles about how much it was to rent you for an hour. 

He seems to forget all about the expenses when you take him all the way down until your nose nestles in the coarse hair at the base. 

He should. 

This Mandalorian was entirely proportionate after all. 

No small feat. 

Most definitely not a small cock. 

After all is said and done, you help him strap his armor back on. Previously he had taken off strictly what was necessary, but this time without a bounty waiting in a closet, he had the luxury of being a little more comfortable. Suiting him back up was an oddly tender moment, working quietly to make sure everything was in its place, fleeting touches so gentle compared to what had transpired moments before. You stretch back across the ruined sheets, wonderfully sore with tear-streaked cheeks, he gives you his name without prompting just as he leaves.

Paz Vizla. 

You don’t actively try to remember the names of your clients, but his sticks with you. 

With how he doesn’t linger or converse with you, you gather he isn’t one to be too sentimental about his affairs, and even more when it’s paid. Although you didn’t really need those small moments before and after the hour to know that. He’s rough and unforgiving, _fucking_ more than actually having sex, pushing your face into the sheets to muffle your sobs or a firm hand around your throat, pressing and pulling and making you beg with each swat on your ass with his large hands. 

So yeah. You remember Paz Vizla’s name, but don’t hold too much hope he’ll be back for a third time. 

You think a girl, worn down by the world and turning bitter, once said to you that the key to happiness was low expectations, or something along those lines. You try to take her advice, but when you get back from a round around the club to check your data pad, a time slot has been filled up. No name. Just an hour. Highly unusual, but you can guess what kind of person could set up an appointment with and not provide a name. Although the words of low expectations and not getting invested in this line of work knocks around in your head, you’re antsy for when his hour rolls around. 

You skip all the preamble of clothes to go for just a simple robe to protect yourself from the steady chill of the air, and wait. You hate to say it, but you find yourself even more excited for him to come back. It’s no lie that you do have regulars, people who have grown used to you and prefer your type, but you never really felt as anticipatory as you did now. 

You then learn that he still hasn’t learned how to properly knock. 

Paz Vizla practically kicks down the door to your room, stripping off his weapons and unbuckling his belt with his sights set on you. “C’mere,” he grunts, and he scoops you up off the bed where you’ve been waiting for him, and he shatters the demure act you’ve put up when he slams you against the adjacent wall. 

“Rough day?” you tease him, and gasp in a stuttered breath when his gloved hand grips your throat to pin you against the wall. There’s that brutal efficiency again. Paz’s free hand starts ripping off the sheer, satiny robe you had on, and starts roughly groping you wherever he can reach, groaning when he finds that you’re bare underneath. You feel cowed by his actions, but you’re just defiant enough to keep running your mouth. “Th-that a yes?” He chokes you off when he tightens his grip, and he leans in close, close enough that you can see the reflection of your eyes in his helmet, pupils blown wide and swallowing the color around it. 

“What do you think, you brat?” he grits out, voice tight with tension, and deliciously low. You can feel the frustration emanating from him, and you wonder how much of it you can direct at yourself. Grinning, you roll your body against his, grinding your naked pussy against the cold beskar of his cuisse, and put your arms around his neck to pull him forward until your forehead rests against his helmet. 

“I think,” you purr, “you should relieve some tension, Paz.” His thumb rubs against the flushed skin of your throat, right over your racing pulse almost pensively before he pinches your nipple, making you inhale sharply. 

“Yeah?” he asks, tugging on your nipple into a stiffened peak. “I think I will.”

Like a trained dog, when he lets go of your throat, you jump up high enough to wrap your legs around his waist, his hands coming to your hips in that bruising hold that never fails to leave marks, and presses you back against the wall, hard enough to knock some of the breath out of you, but soft enough that your head doesn’t crack against the wall. He brings one of his hands up your mouth where you obediently bite on the glove, and he slips his hand out, grabbing the glove and tossing it behind him somewhere. He slides the hand between your bodies, and starts rubbing at your clit in slow circles, dipping down to your slick and back up, and you sigh in pleasure. “You think you can take it?” Paz’s voice has dropped, and something bottoms out in you. 

“Is that even a question?” you ask him, resting your head against the wall as you look at Paz through half-lidded eyes. The rough pads of his finger working your clit send small shockwaves down to your toes, warmth traveling all through your veins and curling in your belly. He doesn’t bother with teasing around your clit, instead going in and opting to alternate between short, quick swipes and slow circles. A shiver runs down your spine when you realize just how easily Paz his holding you up with one arm. You know he’s strong; you’ve known it since day one, but it still makes your toes curl at the thought of how easy it would be for him to break you, and that’s when you toe that blurred line between fear and respect again. Paz laughs, rough and wickedly when you shake in his arms.

“True,” he says. “If you can’t take what I give you,” Paz leans in closer, “then what do I pay you for?” He slides in a finger, relishing your gasp as you pull him closer still, and you can feel his amusement radiating off of him in waves when you press open-mouthed kisses along his helmet, leaving perfect lipstick marks on the metal almost desperately. “Pretty thing,” he murmurs, and graciously tilts his head so you can reach other parts of his helmet. The beskar is cold, but quickly warms up under your mouth. “And all _mine_.” His possessive tone curls around the base of your spine and leaves you warm, preening under his careful attention. You draw back and smile. 

“Only for an hour,” you tease. You know that before he leaves he’ll go to the refresher to wipe all traces of your encounter away, and probably go actually clean his armor wherever he goes after; but for the time you have with him, you’ll leave what marks you can with the barrier of armor. “It’s extra if you go overtime.”

“I’ll make good use of the time I have then,” Paz growls. He adjusts his hold on you, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your ass before he slips in another finger. A high whine escapes before you can smother it, and you flush deeply as Paz huffs a laugh. “You gonna sing for me?” he coos, condescending as he slowly drags his fingers out, against your walls, pressing your clit with his thumb as he does. You make a show of catching your bottom lip between your teeth, smiling at him coyly as you run your hands over his pauldrons, scraping your nails across the metal. Although most of your lipstick has been kissed off, your lips are starting to redden again from your biting. Paz gives you a harsh twist of his fingers that makes you rock forward, but you stay quiet. “That better be a yes,” he warns in a low voice. Paz curls his fingers in you, and you choke down a moan. Even still, you know he heard it catch in your throat because he does it again, stroking up against your clit at the same time. You can’t stop the next one, but you narrow your eyes at him instead. 

“Or what?” you counter, challengingly. His fingers still their movements in you. 

“Or…” he says, and pulls his fingers out of you, and shoves them into your mouth before you can protest. “I’ll leave you.” You look up at him through your lashes, curling your tongue around his digits and letting spit drool down your chin before you turn your head to pop his fingers out of your mouth. A weak threat you already know he won’t make good on. 

“You can’t,” you say sweetly. “You paid for the hour.” Paz grabs a hold of your face, fingers pressing the flesh of your cheek against your teeth to the point you wince.

“Doesn’t mean I have to stay for the hour.”

“Then you’d be wasting your money,” you bite back at him through squished cheeks. You reach down to smear your wetness over the palm of your hand, then feel around blindly until your hand wraps around Paz’s cock, running your deft hands over the velvety-smooth skin, rubbing the pad of your thumb over the head. Your fingers barely touch each other when you reach around, but you try your best to hold him in a slick grip. 

“Fuuuuck,” Paz groans, voice turning breathless at the end as he lets your face go in favor of holding the back of your neck. The heat of his hand is searing, but it just spurs you to tighten your grip. “Just like that.” You squeeze him root to tip, twisting your wrist and drawing a moan from him in response. After a few strokes, you pause, and let go off him, letting his cock bob in the air as you slap your wet hand against the front of his armor. 

“Did you come here just for a handjob?” you ask him. 

Paz doesn’t hesitate to answer. “I sure didn’t come here just to listen to you mouth off to me,” he says, but he loosens his grip and you get down, leaning against the wall and playing with your breast as he starts stripping himself of his armor from the waist up. He makes record time getting undressed, even going as far as to neatly put it down instead of dumping your ass, but it seems like ages before he swoops in again, lifting you back up and putting your knees to your chest, one arm under your ass and the other holding your waist. It’s a little uncomfortable, Paz seemingly wanting to get closer to you, but ending up making your knees squish your tits, but then he’s pressing in, in, _in_ , popping the head of his cock into your hole, and stretching you until he bottoms out and you forget your discomfort. 

You feel so _full_. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve closed your eyes and left your mouth hanging open until Paz orders you to, “Fucking look at me.” You flutter your eyes open, and you feel them well up with tears as he drags his cock out, tortuously slowly, and slams back in, punching a high-pitched squeak out of you, and you knock your head against the wall. The pain of it is quickly washed over with pleasure as he steadies his pace.

“You know,” you gasp out, hands scrabbling at his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself somehow, “we have a bed for a reason.”

“You talk too much,” he grunts, and brings the arm around your waist up to wrap his still-slick hand around your throat, squeezing the sides and making the blood roar in your ears. You teeter precariously in his one-handed grip, but he’s pinned you to the wall enough that you won’t fall. Still, something in your stomach flutters at the fear of falling. You wonder if he can feel your pulse jump under his fingers, but those thoughts are driven out of your head as he speeds up out of nowhere and pounds into you, the obscene slap of his hips against yours almost overtaking the faint beat of the music in the main area of the club. A broken whine escapes your throat, pitched up with every thrust. It’s almost too much too fast, and you end up holding onto Paz with a white-knuckled grip in an attempt not to immediately hurtle off the edge. The heat builds up in your belly into something devastating, and you feel your face turning redder and redder with every passing second. You look at Paz with pleading eyes, tears welling up, and a few spill over when he shifts a little, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. You need to move, need to outwardly express the sheer pleasure rocking through you, but the way you’re being held up makes it impossible. “ _Maker_ , your pussy is clenching around me; you like it when I choke you?” He tightens his grip. You barely register that you’re babbling incoherently at him, little choked off sounds that barely constitute as Basic. The energy between you is charged, and keeps rising with every second that passes. “I bet you do.” You look at him pleadingly again for that relief you’re aching for. 

“Aww,” Paz coos, “you wanna cum, is that what you’re trying to say? Poor, pretty little thing. And so soon, too.” Condescension drips off his words and stings you like acid, but you frantically nod anyways. That coil that’s been winding up inside is ready to snap at any moment, but you know, you _know_ that Paz likes it when you hold off until you get his permission. If it weren’t for the helpless position he’s winded you up into, if it weren’t for the fact that it was _him_ of all people, you would’ve done it as you pleased. But you want to please him. You want this dangerous man to approve of your actions and you know how to play him to get the response you want. The fact that you can barely think or string together any words doesn’t stop you, and you fix him with the most pleading, sorry look you can muster through your tears. So many years of your life building up a thick skin, so much of it in this profession, and he manages to slip by them. “Then _do it._ ”

If you had any breath left in your lungs, your orgasm would’ve punched it out of you, but instead you’re left with your lips tingling and eyes rolling back as your toes curl as you cum. Your vision nearly whites out you clench around Paz’s cock, his pace still at that constant, invasive speed despite the way you tighten around him. He releases his hold on your throat to hold onto the meat of your shoulder. Always, always too much of him, of everything, and you don't want to let go. But eventually you start trying to push him away, your pleasure moans turning more into uncomfortable whines, still too incoherent to form proper words. 

When Paz finally lets go of you, you’re still shaking, and your knees give out from under you without his support. You gasp in a deep breath, head reeling and tears still slipping out of your eyes as you try to gather yourself, but before you can do anything, he threads his hand through your hair and wrenches it back, and shoves his cock into your mouth while you’re trying to recover, forcing a choked off noise of surprise. Paz is merciless, hitting the back of your throat and growling deep in his chest with every thrust as you look up at him with glossy eyes. At this point, you can’t do anything but keep your jaw slack and try not to gag around him, but then he’s burying himself into your throat, keeping your head down as he wipes the tears running down your face. You gag hard around him, and that’s when Paz slides out, slapping your face with his spit-soaked cock as you hiccup through your tears. 

Despite already having cum, your core is throbbing with need again, and you reach up to softly put your hands on Paz’s muscled thighs. You lick your swollen lips. 

“Please,” you rasp, leaning forward as much as you can with that firm hold on your hair to try and capture his cock back in your mouth. You manage to wrap your lips around the head, swirling your tongue. “Paz--” He draws his hips back, and you let out a pathetic whine. His hold tightens, making your scalp sting. 

“Hm?” He pulls on your hair until your neck strains, making you tilt your head back to look up at him. “What is it, baby?” Your lips are parted, glistening with spit as you try and formulate a coherent thought. “What do you want?” You don’t want to see what happens if Paz gets impatient with you, so you opt to open your mouth and stick your tongue out as far out as you can, looking up at him with shiny eyes. You can see when he physically freezes, then he’s gripping the grip of his cock and pressing it back against your tongue.

Paz hisses through his teeth when he sinks his cock back into your mouth, looking at your red-rimmed eyes glazed over with arousal, and his dick twitches in your mouth when you blink up at him with your tear-soaked lashes. “Pretty thing,” he groans. “Pretty, pretty thing.” You moan around his cock as his words make your cunt clenches around nothing. “Let me do anything, _anything_ to you.” It becomes too tiring to try and keep your hands up on his thighs, and despite how awkward it feels, you drop them to your sides, hanging limply as Paz fucks your mouth. 

Truth be told, you space out a little, eyes slipping half-shut as you suppress your gags and instead focus on how the low, ever-changing neon lights of your room reflect and bounce off the surface of his armor. His pace starts to become erratic, more frantic as he chases the sweet warmth of your mouth. You wonder if he's going to cum in your mouth or buried deep in your throat as you swallow around him, but instead Paz pulls out just in time for him to cum over you, half in your open mouth and half on your face, moaning deep in his chest as he hunches his shoulders inwards, almost curling into himself as he continues to pump his cock, slick with your spit, and ride out his orgasm. 

You’re not really seeing when Paz releases his hold on your hair, and you slump against the wall, heaving in breaths as his hot cum drips down your face. Your jaw is aching and you’re sure that you’ll feel the effects of being essentially fucked in a fetal position pressed against an unforgiving wall, but your head is still spinning as oxygen finally circulates to your brain unhindered. With Paz not so close to you, not radiating his nearly suffocating warmth, you feel yourself calm down a little more, breathing evening out as you swallow his cum and sigh. 

Paz just watches you for a little bit, and you can’t tell what his expression is because of the damn helmet with your kisses still smeared all over it, but his hand is clenching and unclenching at his sides as his shoulders slow their rapid up and down. You blink slowly up at him, darting your tongue out to wet your lips and ending up tasting more of the cum on your face. Trying not to cringe, you croak out, “If you don’t tip,” and _Maker_ , your voice is ruined, “I’ll be pissed.” The only indication that Paz heard you at all is a slight tilt of his head and a staticky noise you suspect is a huff of laughter. You shift, and wince when your knees shoot up in pain. You were not looking forward to getting up. Sighing, you duck your head down to rub at the reddening marks on your hips. His boots come into your line of sight, and before you can ask what else he _possibly_ wanted to do, he’s scooping you up, an arm under your knees and the other cradling your upper body to his chest, and he gingerly puts you down on the bed. 

You don’t really say anything, and you think to yourself that this is the first time he’s rendered you speechless without shoving his cock or fingers into your mouth or choking you. He’s gone before you can make a remark about it, ducking into the refresher as you lay on the bed. When you said that you had a bed for a reason, this was not what you had in mind. 

Well, at least he’s utilizing it. 

Or more accurately, you are. 

You can already feel the exhaustion settling deep in your bones as you sink into the soft bed, muscles aching as you vaguely listen to the thrum of music that floats through the club. You have about 15 minutes before your hour with Paz is up, and another client coming in an hour. A bath is in order, and a short nap. Luckily you don’t have to work the floor tonight, so a small blessing from the Maker.

You’re jerked back to the present when a warm, wet rag runs up your leg. You lift your head up, just enough to see Paz lift your leg to make it bend at the knee, and wipes at the mess between your thighs. Most of the lipstick marks have been wiped off his helmet, but you can see little smudges where he’d failed to get rid of it completely. You swallow. 

“What are you doing?” His motion of swiping over your thighs stutters the slightest. You could’ve missed it if you weren’t hyper aware of his every movement right now, if his touch didn’t fail to burn your skin. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grumbles after a brief pause, and resumes wiping away the sticky remnants. You wanna press it, tease him about the awkward tenderness that he’s demonstrating, but you know that if you mention any other word about it, he’ll leave. 

The care is… nice. 

You can’t say that any other clients have gone so far to treat you so kindly after a session. Maybe brief cuddling, a word or two of praise or pat on your ass, but not _this_. Not the hesitant press of Paz’s fingers into your forming bruises, not the way his shoulders tense when you hiss in pain, not the way he refolds the rag to make sure he cleans you up as much as he can. So uncharacteristic of someone his profession, you think. So uncharacteristic that the brutal efficiency has stepped into the background to make way for… whatever this was. The reserved, almost guarded and guilty way Paz is treating you. 

It’s uncharacteristic of his character again when he speaks up. 

“You can take a lot,” he says. You quirk a corner of your lip, and slip your eyes shut as the rag runs over your nose. 

“That’s- that’s what you pay me for,” you respond, parroting his words back at him. Paz huffs out a short laugh. 

“Little brat.” He places the dirty rag on the nightstand next to the bed, giving you one last lingering glance before he heads over to the pile of his armor, slowly strapping it on. You sigh, and reach over to tug a pillow towards you, tucking it under your head. You open one eye lazily. 

“Want help?” you ask. He shakes his head. 

“I don’t think you can even get up, pretty thing,” he says. You won’t deny it; you feel pretty boneless right now and that nap you were thinking about becomes more and more enticing, but your data pad lights up with a notification. You manage to overcome the urge to just roll your eyes and go to sleep, but you drag yourself far enough to reach the other nightstand and unlock it as you read the message. A slow smile spreads over your face, and a flutter of anticipation swells in your chest despite the pleasing ache between your legs and despite the slight tremor still running through your legs. 

“Don’t put your armor back on yet,” you say to him over your shoulder. “My next client just canceled.” Paz hums for you to elaborate. “ _Prepaid_. And non-refundable.” As it always is at the club you work at, but you want to convince him to stay. You succeed, and Paz stops strapping his cuisse back on, instead straightening up and settling his body weight onto one leg. He tilts his head, and you can feel the grin that is no doubt playing under his helmet. 

“His loss.”

Maybe you can reapply your lipstick before the second hour begins. 


End file.
